Quiet
by MoonshoesWeasley
Summary: Ron Weasley likes the quiet now and then, but his girlfriend Hermione Granger likes to talk. He finds a way to get the quiet he craves.


Ron Weasley likes the quiet. Growing up in The Burrow meant that he didn't get it often, and he'd hoped that he'd finally get some peace once he went off to Hogwarts. Of course, when one of your best friends is Harry Potter, moments of peace and quiet are pretty hard to find.

And when your other best friend-come-girlfriend is Hermione Granger, you can bet that any moments of peace and quiet you manage to find will be filled to the brim with talking. And Ron loves that, because he loves Hermione. He loves the sound of her voice; how clipped it can get when she's frustrated about work, how bright it sounds when she's excited about something, how soft and lazy it sounds when she is waking up next to him in the morning.

But sometimes, he just wants an evening of quiet. He wants to come home from a day at the shop (almost as exhausting as his two years as an Auror, to be quite honest) and kick back in the sitting room for a few minutes. He wants to listen to the Cannons on the wireless without missing a play because he's answering Hermione's questions. He wants to relax and read _Seeker Weekly_ in companionable silence while Hermione reads one of her massive books, but he instead has to put his magazine down every few minutes because she has said "Ron, listen to this…"

He reckons that she's always been a talker because she's an only child. He also knows (because she told him, once, in a rare moment of vulnerability) that she has always struggled with feeling insecure, so she tries to fill silent moments with words in an attempt to prove herself. He tries telling her (again) that she's amazing and wonderful and a genius and bloody brilliant, be he knows that old habits die hard. He can relate; he can quickly lose his temper and still sometimes finds himself being jealous of his brothers...or worse, Harry.

So he tries very hard to be understanding and patient and let Hermione talk. She needs it, and he gets that. It'll be something they continue to work on as they grow together, and he's okay with it. Really. Honestly.

Just, on this one particular night, he just really wants _quiet_.

It's been a long day at the shop. It's the end of summer so Diagon Alley has been packed with back to school shoppers. That, of course, means that it took about half an hour before Ron wanted to rip the chime above the door straight off the wall and chuck it in the bin. He was glad the shop was doing so well but he was pretty certain that he didn't get a break all day. When he steps through the Floo, all he wants is to collapse on the sofa. Maybe he'll summon a Butterbeer or two before reheating some of the (many) leftovers his mother sent them home with after their last dinner at The Burrow.

"Ron, you will never believe what's happened today. My proposal to adjust the parameters of Traces on students got rejected, and quite honestly, it just is baffling. I know my position at the DMLE is fairly junior, but the idea is valid and deserves at least a consideration! How do they expect students to do any summer assignments now that they've increased the course load at Hogwarts? Honestly!"

Hermione is in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors and setting the dishes in the sink to washing themselves with a flick of her wand. Ron drags a hand down his face and takes a steadying breath before walking in to greet her with a kiss brushed across her forehead and a slight squeeze. She acknowledges him by briefly relaxing into his embrace before she's off again, now setting the clean dishes to drying themselves and zapping the oven to temperature.

Ron watches her as she moves about the kitchen, ranting and raving. She's bound to do great things, he knows it, if only the prats in her department would listen. He'd thought that her role in the war would earn her some leniency, but apparently all that means is that she has to work harder to prove herself. Really, he thinks she probably prefers it that way, but he knows it plays into her insecurity. She's probably worried that she's not cut out for ministry work, which is ridiculous. He thinks she could be Minister of Magic if she really wanted (and he thinks she probably does.)

But, Merlin help him, he just can't do it tonight. He's talked and listened and listened and talked so much already today, and he swears he'll listen to every word she has to say tomorrow. But tonight, he thinks his brain might explode if he has to have one more conversation.

She's got her back to him, unwrapping a casserole his mother sent home with them. When he slides his hands onto her waist and presses her body against the countertop, she falters a bit but quickly recovers. She's still talking (but a little bit slower and softer) as he leans down and nuzzles the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her shampoo in the curls that have fallen from the twist she's put her hair in.

"Ron, I'm trying to get dinner ready," she breathes. He doesn't say anything but instead braces his hands on either side of body and against the countertop. His lips brush against her pulse and ghost up the side of her neck, to just in front of her ear. He knows she likes it when he kisses her there; he knows she likes the sound of his lips against her skin. She sighs and he feels her relax against him. "What's gotten into you all of sudden?"

"No talking," he whispers, lips still against her ear. She shudders and he smiles, dropping another kiss before reaching up to unwind her hair. He loves her hair. He's always loved her hair. She's figured out how to tame it for work, but by the end of the day it usually has started to frizz and wave and generally go mad with curls. He loves it like this the best (actually it's probably a close second to what it looks like after she's been thoroughly... _satisfied_ ) and he grabs a handful of it and inhales the scent of it.

Hermione giggles. "Ron, let's have dinner first. I know you must be hungry. Tell me about your day," she says.

"Later. Don't want to talk right now. Want to do this." He uses the hand in her hair to push it off her shoulder, bringing the other one up to pull down the collar of her jumper. The strap of her camisole and bra come with and he leans down to press a kiss against the exposed skin.

"Ron, you'll stretch it out," she admonishes, but he gets the feeling she doesn't care very much. She's started to push against him, her rounded bottom pressing against his rapidly hardening length. He knows she can feel every inch of him through the thin fabric of her work skirt. He smirks against her skin and softly bites her shoulder before pressing back against her. She gasps and he chuckles. His hands circle her waist and he feels her skin beneath his fingertips, where his fingers have slipped under the fabric of her jumper.

"Take it off if you don't want it stretched out. Here, lemme help you." He slides his hands up her sides and her arms follow suit, stretching above her head so he can pull off her jumper and camisole. He tosses it somewhere behind him, not particularly caring if it lands in the sink or in the bin or wherever else. His hands come back to rest on her waist, all smooth skin and soft curves. She smiles at him over her shoulder and he takes that as a sign to continue.

He pulls away slightly so he can reach for the clasp of her bra, but stops short when he realizes that there is no clasp. She giggles again and tells him, "this one has the clasp in the front. I don't think you've seen it yet, it's fairly new."

 _What in the world will you barmy women think of next_ , he thinks. He reaches around to figure out this front clasp and makes surprisingly short work of it, sliding it down her shoulders and flinging it the same direction as her jumper and camisole. As her breasts come free and he cradles them in his palms, he decides that front clap brassieres are his new favorite thing. He hefts their weight in his hands and brushes his thumbs across each nipple, delighting in the way she moans. Her head falls back against his shoulder and she arches her back, that perfect round arse of hers pushing directly against his erection.

"Ron...that feels so good," she sighs. He likes it when she says things like that; likes it when she strokes his ego. But tonight?

"No more talking," he whispers.

His hands move back to her waist and he spins her around, claiming her mouth before she can protest. It's not one of the soft and slow and gentle kisses they share so often. This kiss is hard and fast and messy, a clash of lips and tongues that sets Ron even more aflame. He pulls away only long enough to strip off his own shirt, then presses himself so they are skin to skin. Hermione groans and her head falls back, and he takes the opportunity to plant kisses along her collarbone. Her hands roam across his back and up to his neck. She presses his head against her chest and he knows what that means, so he lowers his head to capture a pert pink nipple in his mouth. "Yes, Ron," she breathes, and he teases her nipple with his teeth as a reminder.

"Shhh," he shushes. He puts a finger against her lips and she surprises the hell out of him by opening her mouth and pulling his finger in with her tongue. She sucks against it and he feels his knees buckle. _She really is turning out to be a little scarlet woman_ , he thinks. _Lucky me_.

He pulls her finger from her mouth and swirls it around a nipple. She moans and he leans down to replace his finger with his mouth. His hands move down to grip underneath her thighs and he pulls her legs up so that she's sitting on the edge of the countertop. Her legs wrap around his waist and he's thankful that he's as tall as he is, because he can nestle himself directly between her parted thighs. Her skirt has ridden up and he knows she can feel his erection; the heat and length and hardness of it pressed right against her-

"Bloody stockings," he growls. She giggles and his hands become busy at the waistband of her skirt, fumbling to find the zipper so he can get it and the damned stockings off. She helps him by bracing herself on the counter and raising her hips, and suddenly the offending garments (knickers included) are sliding off of smooth skin. They reach a barrier at her shoes, but she kicks them off and her legs are free. _Finally,_ he thinks, and he reaches back to grip her bottom and pull her towards him, their centers finally connecting.

Except now his pants are in the way and Hermione feels the same, judging by the way her hands somewhat frantically move to his belt buckle. Together they get the belt unbuckled and soon his pants are pooled around his ankles and he probably looks ridiculous, but frankly he can't be bothered by it. Hermione shifts on the counter and grinds against his naked cock and he groans. She grabs him by the waist and pulls his body as close as possible and they kiss again, somewhat desperately. This whole thing started as an exercise to get her quiet, but now he is overwhelmed with the _need_ he feels for her. She does that to him, gets under his skin and drives him insane and reduces him into a puddle of want and need and lust and love and just _everything_.

He reaches down with one hand to grip his shaft and guide himself into her. She is ready and wet and wanting, and they both groan as he slides inside. She starts to say something, but he leans forward and captures whatever words she was going to say with his mouth. He can almost taste them on his tongue, almost, and he slowly slides his tongue throughout her mouth trying to chase those pesky words back to where they came from. But then she groans again and bucks her hips against them and he snaps back to reality with a snap of his hips, burying himself inside of her to the hilt.

A breathy little "oh" escapes her lips and drifts into Ron's mouth and he swallows it greedily, deciding that he'll allow it even though it's technically talking. He pulls back, his length dragging across her tight walls and slick wetness and hesitates only a moment before plunging back in. She angles her hips so that he brushes against her clit with every stroke and her head falls back and he hears fast, breathy little gasps and this time he's the one who speaks-

"Fucking _hell_ , Hermione," he growls. He picks up speed because he can't help himself; he knows he won't last long because there's something about fucking your studious, serious, talkative, determined, intelligent, sexy, wonderful girlfriend on your kitchen counter that brings about an orgasm pretty quickly. She doesn't seem to mind, though, because she's shifted her weight to on hand so that she can bring the other to the point that they're connected. He almost comes undone right then and there, feeling her fingertips move against his skin while they're moving against her most sensitive spot.

He lets go and pounds into her, gripping her hips for leverage and dipping his head to recapture a nipple. She arches her back and her breast fills his mouth and he groans against her skin. He knows she's close; he can feel her start to tighten as her fingers move faster. He buries himself inside of her with every thrust and suddenly she comes, her thighs tightening around him and her chest heaving as she falls over the brink.

Ron is not far behind her; a few more thrusts and he empties himself inside of her. They collapse against each other panting, and stay that way for a few moments before he pulls back. Her hair is wild and a few curls are sticking to her sweaty face. He loves it.

They disentangle themselves from each other and head to the bedroom to clean up and get changed. He gets done before her and head back into the kitchen to get dinner ready. After a few minutes she pads in and zaps the kettle with her wand. She pours a cup of tea after the kettle whistles and settles in to eat.

Later, they're cuddled on the couch. Hermione has a huge book spread across her lap and Ron is flipping through the day's issue of _The Daily Prophet_. He leans his head against hers and plants a kiss against her hair. "Want to tell me about your day now?"

She looks up at him and smiles. "Maybe later. I like the quiet."


End file.
